


The Long Road to Seven Kingdoms

by incandescent_marmoset



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambition, F/F, Femslash, Power Play, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incandescent_marmoset/pseuds/incandescent_marmoset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery’s had three kings already. How many more will it take to secure the iron throne?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lady Margaery

**Author's Note:**

> The eagle-eyed (or vaguely conscious) of you might notice that I have written younger characters as a bit older than they are in the books – largely because I find some bits *cough* a wee bit uncomfortable to write if they’re underage. In my defence, the tv series is the same, I imagine for similar reasons.
> 
> This is my first attempt at fanfic, so be nice! I will aim to post a new chapter every couple of days. I do hope you enjoy :)

Margaery stared out across the glory of the capital city. She closed her eyes and breathed it in. The distant stink from the river and from Flea Bottom was nothing to the roses she’d had delivered from Highgarden. Indeed, had she not the use of her eyes, she could almost have been walking the shaded paths of her childhood summers. So far she had come. It was sad to think that so little from that time was left to her still.

Her grandmother, and dear Loras. Both lay dead in the ground, and had done so now for many a year. But each had played their part, though neither quite so artfully as Margaery herself. And now that at last the path to the iron throne of Westeros had opened out before her, it was a shame that neither of them was here to see it. 

The road had not been easy. Along the way she’d lain with four kings, three queens, and countless others besides. Not that she dwelt much on these. From the time of her childhood, Margaery Tyrell had been drawn to crowns and to thrones, and most of all, to that which they symbolised. _Power._ She had seen kings conquer with their armies, and thought it a messy business. Unnecessary, as she saw it, when true power was found buried deep within the hearts, minds and bodies of men. From a young age, Margaery had found that these were conquered easily, and with little recourse to bloodshed.

Margaery Tyrell had been born with the power to make people love her. It was her great talent. Kings and queens had fallen for her, doing everything in their power to win her heart, and she had succumbed to their advances only as and when it suited her. Would history look upon her kindly? she wondered. Certainly it might be inclined to belittle her achievements as luck, chance, the will of her family. There were few living who knew the truth, who knew how hard she had worked to claim what she’d seen as rightfully hers. Margaery Tyrell was no pawn.

No indeed. In the games of men, she was queen.

And yet, from a wholly different perspective, Margaery was, she knew, little different from any street-side whore. Not that she found such a notion distasteful. In fact, she took a rough kind of pride in the label. There is a fine art to whoring. It is a craft; one that requires years of training and careful practice.

Well, years had passed, and by now Margaery considered herself a master-craftsmen.

It had all started with Alanna. Alanna, with her soft lips and deft fingers. Alanna, who had  been first her maidservant, then her loyal friend, and finally, her lover. Of course, Alanna was no queen, and in truth, these days Margaery thought of her little. But she had been her first, her tutor, her guide, and for that, Margaery owed her a great deal.

Margaery had never been exactly what one might call innocent, no indeed, she had been making up stories for her younger cousins years before she’d finally felt Alanna’s lips close over her own, and more before she’d managed to coax her into her bed. No, innocence, as Margaery saw it, was something to be projected, not valued, which was why, when at the tender age of fifteen she’d seen Alanna walking merrily down the path towards the lakes, hand in hand with a girl from the kitchens, she had hidden behind the hedges, and watched them. Watched them as they’d settled down in the grass near to the water, whispering to each other in voices too low for Margaery to hear. Then, when Alanna had leaned forward and kissed her friend, Margaery had felt something flutter deep down in her stomach. She’d tried to lean in closer as the other girl had started to unlace Alanna’s bodice, but suddenly her grandmother was calling her, and she didn’t want to risk them being discovered.

Secrets were dangerous, but they could also be useful.  

That afternoon, when Margaery was back in her rooms, she’d sent her companions away. Said she’d had a headache. Even then, it had been too easy. She’d waited, lazing back on her chaise, knees tucked up under her chin, for Alanna to return.

The girl had disguised herself well. Not a hair was out of place, not a crease in her dress. The only hint of her earlier escapades was the slight hint of colour to her cheeks.

‘You enjoyed the sun this afternoon?’ Margaery had asked

‘Yes, my lady, I wish only that the summer may last forever.’

Maragery had studied her. There was not even the slightest trace of a blush. ‘If only that could be so,’ she said. In Highgarden, in Margaery’s memories at least, every day had been summer. ‘Who is your friend?’

‘My lady...?’ the girl’s forehead creased in confusion – quite convincingly, Margaery thought – ‘I am unsure of whom you speak.’

Margaery tilted her head, allowing her own features to fall into puzzlement, ‘Why,’ she said, ‘I’m sure I saw you walking the gardens with Aida’ – it paid to research, another lesson – ‘not two hours before now.’

Nothing, no guilt, not even a flicker of uncertainty. ‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘I did run into her. She wanted to show me the lilies.’

‘Mm,’ Margaery nodded, momentarily stumped. ‘They are beautiful this time of year.’

‘I didn’t realise you were so close,’ she added, after a pause.

‘What?’ _Finally_. A flash of the anxiety that Margaery was looking for.

‘With Aida. I didn’t realise the two of you were so close.’

‘It’s good to have... friends, my lady.’

Margaery smiled, foxlike even in her sincerity, and shuffled closer to her. ‘Of course, but am I not your friend?’ she had asked, impishly.

Alanna had looked surprised. ‘Of course, my lady, you are the best friend I have,’ she’d said.

Then Margaery had leaned forward. ‘I’d like you to show me,’ she’d said.

‘What?’

‘Show me,’ she said slowly, looking up, catching Alanna’s eye, ‘like you showed Aida, that I’m your best friend.’

At first, Alanna had resisted her, but it couldn’t last as long as always, unspoken between them, there hung the threat of exposure. Margaery had felt badly about this at first, because although she would never have revealed her handmaid’s secret, it was not in her interest to offer reassurance. It had been manipulative, but it had worked: Alanna had given in. And this small victory had tasted almost as good as Alanna herself. 

At first, kisses had been fleeting; often asked for, rarely received. Perhaps Alanna had felt some residue of loyalty to Aida. If so, it hadn’t lasted. Margaery was both a quick learner and willing student: a daughter of the house Tyrell. And she was beautiful. People had told Margaery that she was beautiful since the time when she’d been old enough to understand them. Alanna was merely pretty. Of course, had she been a daughter of house Tyrell, she’d probably have been beautiful too. But as it was, she was fresh and pretty; her brown hair and eyes almost golden in the sun. She was lovely, in fact, or so Margaery had thought at the time: the loveliest flower in Highgarden.

It only struck her much later as odd that despite having seen men kiss women time and again, she’d never yearned in the same way to experience it herself. Never lain awake at night hoping for prince charming to burst through the doors. No, she smiled. _That_ was more her brother’s forte. At the time though, the thought had been easily dismissed. After all, she had a lifetime of such duties ahead of her.

But it had given her an idea.

She’d been seventeen when she asked Alanna if she could teach her how to pleasure a husband.

At first, Alanna had flushed. ‘My lady, I have no husband of my own,’ she’d pointed out. ‘What can you expect me to teach you?’

‘Just show me,’ Margaery had said, shifting herself over the other girl, ‘just show me what you would do to me.’

This time, Alanna had relented quickly. She’d raised her eyebrows, reaching up and cupping Margaery’s cheek, and in one swift movement, pulled her down hard over her.

Margaery had giggled, then she had panted, and before long she was gasping for air. She’d wanted to scream it was so good, but Alanna had stifled the noise with her hand. No one could find them. She couldn’t risk her job. She needn’t have worried. Of the two of them, Margaery had so much more to lose.

Afterwards, Margaery had lain back against the cotton sheets, wishing that she might stay forever curled up tight in the arms of the older girl.

But then, all too soon – perhaps a while later, actually. It was funny how some memories pushed forward at the expense of others, leaving blurred gaps of indeterminate length in between them –  she had come across her brother, sat weeping on the steps like a little girl.

‘Loras?’ she had asked him, all concern. ‘What is it?’

‘I – it –’ he struggled to find the words, ‘you are to be married, my sweet sister,’ he had said, putting his hand on hers.

‘And why, then, do you cry?’ she had asked. After all, such news was hardly unexpected, and certainly not cause for sadness. But when he made no reply, her eyes had widened, and she had dared to ask, ‘Who?’

‘Renly Baratheon,’ Loras choked. ‘You are to be queen,’ he said, attempting a smile.

 _Ah._ Margaery nodded, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, because suddenly his tears made sense.


	2. The Rainbow King

A chill wind from the Blackwater cut across the sluggish evening heat, making Margaery shiver. ‘Could you bring me my shawl, Azario?’ she asked gently, glancing behind her.

The eunuch’s footsteps were the softest of any she had encountered, but Margaery had a sixth sense when it came to knowing that eyes were on her.

She was fond of Azario. And in fact of many of the men who weren’t men that her beloved had brought with her across the Narrow Sea. They had the sweetest dispositions. Until roused, that is, when their retribution could be as frightening as it was unexpected.

But Margaery had no cause to fear. Azario loved her, as did they all, dick or no.

_Men who weren’t men_. People had spoken of her brother in that way once, and of her first husband. Never within her earshot, of course, nor theirs. But it had been there, a whisper around the camp, a distant echo of the rumours that had stalked King’s Landing with a vengeance since the war for the seven kingdoms began.

It angered Margaery to hear. Loras might have been a fool, and Renly too, but what they did, what they liked done to them, it didn’t make them lesser men.

Even so, the experience with Renly had shaken her confidence, badly.

She had been so young – only eighteen, and Renly had looked upon her, naked vulnerable, and exposed, and he had turned the other way. He hadn’t wanted her. Didn’t need her. It was unthinkable. That first night after the wedding she had cried, real tears: the first that she could remember.

And how she had longed to be back in the arms of Alanna, whose body had tensed with want whenever (and wherever) Margaery had seen fit to drop her drape to the ground.

She would have to reconcile herself, she resolved, to the fact that she would never provoke such responses from her husband.

At first it had angered her. What kind of a king was he? To assume to take everything she had and offer nothing in return. What kind of a knight could do such a disservice to a lady – his queen, no less?

But in the few short weeks they had spent together, he had taught her a valuable lesson. From him, she had learned that sometimes, all that is needed is a little perseverance. This little piece of wisdom was worth more to her than his love. She would always remember Renly for that, and she would always be grateful to him.

Gradually, her feelings towards him had softened. She’d begun to think of him as she had of Loras: as something born to power by chance of birth. Something fragile that needed her protection.

Poor Renly. Killed by a shadow. So young. So pretty. So... _unsuspecting._ More a doe, really, than ever a stag.

And poor Loras. He’d never really gotten over it. The murder of his beloved had burned him up, body and soul. First came rage, and then grief: an all-consuming, overwhelming, heart-stopping grief. He’d been inconsolable, blind to the fact that Caitlin Stark – or much less Brienne of Tarth – could have been responsible for his lover’s death.

No. Margaery had seen Stannis, on that grey morning by the clifftops when the brothers had met for the last time. She had seen the hard line of his jaw, and the easy outspoken confidence of the witch-woman at his ear, and she had known then that he wouldn’t flinch to see Renly slain.

Such a pity. She had no doubt now, with the benefit of hindsight, that in time he would have succumbed to her advances. He’d been keen enough when she’d made it plain that she would do whatever it took, even offering to share him with Loras, but even then, the time had never been quite right. Not that he could ever have loved her. Margaery knew that – she wasn’t naive. But love for its own sake had never been something that had mattered all that much to Margaery. It could be a welcome side-effect, certainly, but never an end in itself. After all, Renly himself had married her for power, not for love. Indeed, it was one thing – perhaps the only thing – they had in common.

Even so, he would have been fond of her, and she’d been sad when he died.

He’d have made a better husband than Joffrey, at least.


	3. The Young Lion

Hands graced her shoulders as Azario swept the shawl about her in a single, swift motion.

Margaery smiled. It felt peculiarly like a poor man’s replication of the cloaking ceremony. Margaery had been cloaked four times, by four different husbands from three different houses, and yet not one had managed to perform the act with the confidence and grace of Azario. Perhaps, then, it was unsurprising that she had remained a Tyrell throughout, and would do so until the day she died.

Renly’s death had been a serious knockback for house Tyrell. Happily though, circumstances were soon to twist once more in their favour.

Reluctantly, Margaery ceded, the credit for this turn-around lay largely with the man they called Littlefinger.

‘You want to be a queen?’ he had pressed her.

Margaery had always believed that the direction of one’s life could be determined by the choices one made at key moments; pivotal moments. Some moments which, like some people, in the grand scheme of things had greater significance than others. Although at the time, Margaery hadn’t recognised it for what it was, this had been one of these moments.

‘No,’ she had corrected him with sincerity, ‘I want to be _the_ queen.’

Margaery bit her lip hard, even now, at the memory of the slip. The words had not been intended; should never have been uttered. She’d been upset by Renly’s death, that was all – more than she had any right to be – and Loras was being difficult (as he had every right to be), but that was no excuse to let her mask slip – to tell the truth (of all things!) – in the presence of a man so dangerous as Petyr Baelish.

But as luck would have it, the slip had worked in her favour. Of course, being master of coin, Littlefinger didn’t work for nothing, but by happy chance, on this occasion their goals had coincided: he’d come to broker an alliance between the Lannisters and the Tyrells, and on the face of things, Margaery’s words had merely served to affirm her side’s willingness to accept.

And so House Tyrell had switched its allegiance, and it mattered little that Petyr Baelish never looked at her quite the same.

Yes, Margaery wanted to be queen, queen of all Westeros, of each and every one of the seven kingdoms. Renly had given her a taste of it, but he was dead and his claim was ended, and hers with it.

That was the beauty of kings, though. They were so easily replaced. The king is dead... _long live the king_.

And of course, the new king would need a queen.

...

 

Just one look, that was all it had taken, and Margaery had known, without hesitation, that the rumours about Jaime and Cersei Lannister were true. It was a dangerous game they played. After all, hadn’t they said of the Targaryens that every time a child was born, the gods rolled a dice...

What kind of evil had they rolled when Joffrey was born? For he was every inch the monster that Sansa had warned her he would be.

‘How exciting it must be, to pull the trigger here,’ Margaery had whispered, knowing full well the effect her words were having, ‘and watch something die over there.’

The best lies have always the echo of truth, that’s what Margaery’s grandmother had taught her, and she was right. Margaery may not have been excited by small cruelties in the way that Joffrey seemed to be, but she had always held the joint doctrines of cause and effect particularly close to her heart. She understood better than anyone just how exciting it could be to pull a lever here: a small smile; a subtle turn of the head; a gentle brush of the hand, and watch as over there, plans crumbled and kingdoms fell.

As Margaery saw it, the way that most men – and indeed a great deal of women – dealt with power was all wrong. They treated it like a hunt: a chase to the death, played out in full and often to the detriment of both parties. There was no finesse, no recognition of art, and often-as-not, little that resembled strategy as far as Margaery understood the term.

No, Margaery took no pleasure in killing. Sometimes, she granted, it was necessary, but never for the joy of it. Never for... _lust_. And she knew he’d killed those whores. Poor women. The blood had been cleaned from his chambers, but still the smell had lingered.

But Margaery had taken the time to study Joffrey, and she’d noticed something. What nobody else seemed to realise was that deep down, Joffrey _knew_ he was a monster, and because of this, he’d been trained to think that nobody could love him.

But then Margaery had arrived in Kings Landing, and she’d challenged his expectations: pretending that who he was didn’t bother her; smiling at him when he deserved it least; offering him her love and not her judgement. And in these small ways, she’d managed to win him around, because what nobody else seemed to realise, was that no matter how evil the monster became, he _wanted_ to be loved.

Poor, misunderstood, lonely little boy.

And that was why it had been so much easier with him than it had been with Renly. Right from the start, he’d _wanted_ her. She’d felt him, sometimes, watching her, watching her every movement: from her soft deliberate footsteps all the way up to the slightly twisted smiles she saved specially for him, and everything, _everything,_ in between (sheer gowns, loosely draped, fluttering in the breeze, hinting at the soft flesh beneath. Taught fabric stretched over every contour, every valley). Margaery knew all about the power of suggestion. Implicit in her every step, in her every breath, there was the promise of _more_.Men (women, children) would take one look at her, and know that it could never be enough.

And what were kings if not men?

Yes, he’d wanted her. And not only that – he’d _needed_ her, because she made him feel that he could be his own, abhorrent, diabolic self, and she would love him anyway.

She wondered though, sometimes, if in the end he would have hurt her. She had seen him hurting others that he had, at some time or another, professed to care about: his mother, both of his uncles, even Sansa Stark.

But the problem was that they made it so easy for him. They challenged him, set themselves up as his enemy, and then when he rounded on them, seeking only to use the power that they themselves had so readily bestowed upon him, they had the audacity to act surprised.

Not that she was making excuses.

He was vile and cruel, weak and brutish, greedy and wasteful, and not, when it came down to it, all that bright.

She could never have loved him.

But she did think, sometimes, that with Joffrey, if she’d had to, she _could_ have made it work.

Once or twice, she’d felt him watching as she weaved her spells over people, making them love her, and she could tell from his eyes that he was _interested_. And then, when she and he had stood together at the window, just after the wedding, and the common people had cheered and cheered, he’d _liked it._

But unfortunately (for him), her grandmother hadn’t been there to see these glimpses, these flashes of a character that might, with time, be tempered. And in all honesty, at the time and still, Margaery was grateful to have been saved the trouble of what would have surely been a lifetime’s work.

No, she might have cried and wept and mourned with the rest of them, but she hadn’t been sorry when he was killed. What had happened at the wedding feast may have been brutal – something, in fact, which the young king himself might readily have approved – but it had been necessary. Joffrey may, in time, have made a passable husband, but she had no doubt that he would have made a terrible king.

Unfortunately, though, his death had ruined her plans for Sansa.


	4. The Red Wolf

Margaery wrapped the shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. She would have to go in soon. The sky was darkening, night drawing in close.

Not yet though. Hues of orange and blue made a dazzling backdrop to the lines of pink and violet that scarred the skyline as the sun drooped lazily behind the horizon.

Winter was coming, as the Starks were so fond of saying. But _not yet._

Few families had fared well in the War of Five Kings. Even the Tyrells had endured their losses. ( _Loras, dear sweet Loras._ Margaery mourned him still). But few had suffered through worse than the Starks.

Their trials had begun with the fall of Lord Eddard.

Margaery hadn’t known the family then, though she had known the man by his reputation. And she had known that her Joffrey had been behind his ill-advised execution.

By the time the Tyrells had arrived in court, the Lannisters were paying dearly for this slight.

The red wedding had put an end to that. Margaery shuddered. She wasn’t ordinarily squeamish, but that had been an evil thing. So many dead. _First Lord Eddard, then Lady Caitlin, King Rob... his wife... his unborn child... bannermen too numerous to name._

No, the first – and indeed the only – of Eddard Stark’s children with whom Margaery had had any dealings at all, was his eldest daughter, Sansa.

Poor Sansa. Margaery remembered the first time she had seen her, staring out across the throne room, a young girl, barely of age.

It had been the culmination of an exciting day for Margaery. There was the recent victory, the bustle of the capital, the sumptuous newness of the court and its characters, and, of course, the part that she must play before the king she was to marry. All this hadn’t left much thought to spare for the girl whose position she was so ready steal from under her. 

Poor Sansa. An orphan with two brothers already slain (burned alive if rumour had it right), and one at the wall, a sister missing, and a life ahead of her as the wife of one of the cruellest kings ever to grace the iron throne.

A sorry tale.

Margaery had expected to find hatred, or perhaps something akin to jealousy, but the look in Sansa’s eyes had told only of fear, and something else, something like... _gratitude_.

At the time, it had seemed odd, but soon it became clear. To Sansa, Margaery had been a knight in shining armour, rushing in at the last to give herself up to the monster in Sansa’s place. Margaery smiled, imagining herself dressed in Loras’s silver armour with the roses entwined on the breast. _The Knight of Flowers._

Margaery was no knight. She was a queen. _The_ queen. _Almost_.

Margaery never expected to find a friend. At first she’d felt badly, and so she’d encouraged her grandmother’s plan to wed Sansa first to one brother, then the other. Of course Sansa had been sorry when the engagement to Loras had fallen through, at which Margaery could only smile. _Little dove, so much to learn._

She had no doubt that Willas would have proven a charming husband. He was a little older certainly, but he was thoughtful and kind and uninterested by life at court. He and Sansa would have been good together. Could have grown fond of each other. Margaery could easily imagine them still, walking, slowly – Sansa making every allowance for her husband’s crippled leg – through the groves of Highgarden. Happy in both solitude and togetherness.

But it was not to be. The Lannisters were unwilling to relinquish their prize to the Tyrell clan. Lord Tywin had wed her to his dwarf-son, Tyrion.

Margaery actually rather liked Tyrion, from what few dealings she’d had with him at the time. In fact, she’d have married him herself in a heartbeat for Casterly rock (and for the look on Cersei’s face), had nothing better been on offer.

But Sansa didn’t think that way. She’d lived all her life longing for a happy ending, only to have it snatched away time and again.

Margaery hadn’t liked to see her friend hurting.

‘Some girls like tall men,’ she’d said easily, in an effort to make Sansa feel better about her circumstances, ‘some like short, some girls like hairy men, and some bald. Some girls like pretty boys... some like pretty girls.’ She’d dropped in this last like it was nothing, merely a statement, risking only a glance to gage Sansa’s reaction.

Nothing, at the time. But Sansa had been promised one of the Tyrells, and Margaery didn’t like to see a promise broken. Later, later when they were kissing under the roses, perhaps then the words had sunk in.

To this day, Margaery wasn’t entirely sure whether she’d taken advantage of Sansa or done her a kindness. Or even whether it even really mattered. Either way, it had given them both a welcome break. Sansa from her dwarf husband, and Margaery from her efforts at taming the beast that was Joffrey.

Margaery hoped, though, that she had gone some way to lighten Sansa’s burden. She truly had wanted to help her.

And yet, it was hardly a chore.

Because whatever else Sansa might be, she was beautiful. Just exquisite. Red hair cascading over skin as pale as milk and sweet as honey. Wide blue eyes like crystals, wrists and ankles and neck delicate and slender, with just a slight fullness at the hips and breasts.

Far lovelier, really, than Margaery herself. Not that Margaery found this in any way off-putting. No, she wasn’t the jealous type (unlike Cersei). She had never needed to be, because she knew with resounding clarity, that there was no one else quite like her. 

It was true: some girls were more beautiful. Some had fairer skin, glossier hair, fuller breasts. Some were taller. Some more slender. Some were cleverer, and some richer. (And now, of course, quite a few were younger too).

But it didn’t matter. For not one of them had been loved for so long and by so many as Margaery herself.

So when she’d handed Sansa the rose, that afternoon, in the gardens of Kings Landing, when she’d leaned forward, daring to peek up through her eyelashes, when she’d heard the other girl’s sharp intake of breath as she’d leaned in to touch her lips with her own, it had mattered not one jot that Sansa Stark was no longer part of some great plan for the kingdom, for the Tyrells, or for Margaery herself. All that mattered was that she was there, and she was beautiful, and Margaery had wanted her.

 _This is what it must be like,_ she’d thought to herself, later, as they’d lain in bed together, the silky cotton sheets pushed back because even the heat of the evening in the capital was sickly sweet. _This is what it must be like to want something (someone) without strings, without thought of one’s family, one’s house, one’s kingdom, but to want it just for the pleasure of having it._

This, Margaery recognised, must be how others felt about her.

In fact, Sansa hadn’t even looked surprised when she’d come back from her nightly ritual at the roots of the heart tree to find Margaery locked up in her chambers. She’d merely crossed over to the bed, and resumed their kiss.

This time Margaery was ready and hungry for it. She raked Sansa’s hair with one hand as the other worked clumsily (clumsy – when was she ever clumsy?) at loosening her dress.

Only then, when she’d paused to use both hands, had she looked at Sansa, really looked at her, and seen that her cheeks were wet and there were tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Margaery had stroked her face then, and held her, and told her that it would be ok ( _lies, meaningless, comforting, cowardly lies_ ).

The Godswood had done this, she thought angrily. It had brought the pain back to her Sansa. Refused her the relief she so clearly needed. Margaery didn’t admire piety. She had always rather thought that the gods – and by extension, their priests – stole too much of the credit that rightfully belonged to man, but in Sansa’s case, she could understand it.

Of course it was clear now, that it wasn’t the Godswood, or the Lannisters, or even the death of Sansa’s family that was to blame. It was the game. The game of thrones. Sansa had dared to play, and she’d lost more than anyone would have thought possible.

The game was not for the fainthearted.

Poor Sansa, all alone in the world, with only Margaery to hold her. Margaery held her tight. She didn’t begrudge the girl a little pleasure, a few sweet hours to dull the pain.

And she supposed that given the circumstances, it was little surprise that the sex didn’t burn like the kisses.

It was sweet though, sweet like Sansa. Sansa, who had so little, Margaery knew that she must be generous. Giving what she could and asking nothing in return. Wiping away the tears, she plied Sansa with kisses: tender and hard, fire and passion, sweetness and light, up here and down there. And for a while it was fun, to lie with a woman again, to be reminded of the skills she had learned in Highgarden. To give Sansa the pleasure that her husband could not.

And she enjoyed the noises Sansa made against her skin. Soft breaths, gentle delight. Nothing like the greedy, animal grunts of men.

And if it was better for Sansa than it was for her, then that was all to the good.

Not that the girl hadn’t tried, bless her: pliant and tender and desperate for love. So eager to please sweet Margaery who could have been her sister, who she thought was her friend, _who just wanted to fuck her._ (Was it so much to ask? Was it cruel? Presumptuous? To fuck a beautiful, damaged, married, young woman? Or was it a kindness? A blessing? Margaery didn’t know. _Hadn’t cared_ ).

But she’d found it difficult to reach any kind of state of arousal herself. When Sansa’s tear-stained cheeks had brushed her thighs, Margaery felt only pity. When her hands were cold, there was empathy. When her explorations were too gentle, there was compassion, and when her tongue missed the mark, there was forgiveness. Margaery hadn’t wanted to offend or belittle her friend, the almost-queen, so she’d gasped and sighed and made all the right noises, tensing and relaxing her body on cue. And afterwards she’d given herself to Sansa again, and then waited until she’d fallen asleep.

And then, after that, she’d brought herself off with a passion, because it was surprising how exciting it could be, doing good.

...

The door to hers chambers was opened, and a man walked out onto the balcony. Margaery ignored him. He whispered some words to Azario, turned, and left.

Margaery said nothing, just waited for her servant to speak.

‘My lady?’ the soft deepness of the eunuch’s voice was like music in the air.

Margaery pretended not to hear him.

‘My lady, the queen requests your presence in the throne room.’

 _Does she?_ Margaery’s thoughts were still with Sansa, _Well she can wait a little longer._  

...

And yet, though Margaery felt badly about what had happened to Sansa (the lost husband, the murder charge, the escape, the years of running. Margaery had much to feel bad about), she couldn’t bring herself to regret it, because it had worked out so well for her and hers, at least for a time.

She wondered, though, what Sansa thought of her now. If she thought of her at all. _Lady Margaery. The Queen who loved me. The girl who betrayed me for gain and left me to die._ One and the same. And yet Margaery wasn’t ashamed of who she was or what she had done.

They were one and the same.

Perhaps it was ironic that in the end, Sansa had made it to a throne of sorts, and via a fairly uneasy path herself. The Queen of Winter, they called her now, fondly, in the north, that strangest and most remote of the seven kingdoms. It was an odd choice of pet name for a girl whose hair burned like wildfire on a summer’s day (like kisses).

Margaery hoped it had given her some comfort, to have salvaged something from the wreckage of her homeland, and the catastrophe that had struck her family time and again.

Occasionally she thought it would be nice to see Sansa again, because she couldn’t help but feel, at the time and still, that the girl had had so much _potential._ After all, she could have been queen.

Margaery sighed. She just hadn’t _wanted_ it enough.

 


	5. The Boy King

When the shadows had all but melted into darkness, Margaery went inside and began to make herself ready.

She sat down in the chair at her desk and leaned forward to look into the mirror. Propping up her eyebrows with her forefingers, Margaery considered her reflection. The shadows underneath her eyes were less pronounced than they had been, though she was sure that the stress of the past year had added more lines to her forehead than she could really afford.

It was hard work, spending this much time around royalty. One had to be careful not to... lose one’s head.

Margaery wasn’t sure exactly what it was that had driven her, time and again, to reach for the throne.

There were some, she knew, who worked their whole lives just for a shot at the legendary iron seat, and yet most never came close.

And then there were those who were born to it.

Margaery was a little of both. She suspected that the drive might be in her blood. And yet her family were a mixed bunch. Her brothers were a good sort. Loras and Garlan were similarly skilled at swordplay, and Willas had his hawks and his books, but none of them lived for the court. Her mother was a dutiful wife, and she loved her family, but she was no queen. Her father, on the other hand, loved the idea of power, but couldn’t begin to handle the reality. And yet, for most of Tommen’s short reign, he was closer to it than any of them. Except, of course, for Margaery herself.

Then there was Olenna, her grandmother. Margaery suspected that she might have had something of a penchant for thrones. She’d certainly done her best to set Margaery upon one.

It would’ve been so easy to give up after Joffrey had died.

Joffrey might not have been a popular king, his short reign already marred by war, famine and butchery, but his death had shaken the capital. No one was ready for another wedding. And this aside, Margaery, ten years Tommen’s senior, and with two husbands already in the ground, was hardly the obvious choice of bride.

And yet, in some ways, she so clearly was.

A formal alliance between the Tyrells and the Lannisters was still highly sought by both parties, and Margaery’s record had proven not only that she could be queen, but that fate seemed inclined to place a crown on her head. 

Unfortunately, this was not a sentiment shared by the queen regent, whose position in relation to both the king and his council made her a powerful adversary.

But Margaery was not to be deterred. The strategist in her was well aware that Cersei’s loud voice and whispered words were not the weapons she thought they were.

No indeed, in fact if there was one thing Cersei was good at, it was making sons into enemies.

Contrary to popular belief – Cersei’s belief, certainly – Margaery found that the best way to get what you wanted was not by shouting or by trying to force your will upon others, but by coaxing them, gently, into believing that _they wanted it too._

With Tommen, for example, it hadn’t taken much, just a little time, some kind words, a gift or two, and before long, he’d _wanted_ her as his queen.

And who would stand against the king? It really had been that easy. She was almost ashamed by how easy it had been.

A boy. Just twelve years old. Only a boy. And a sweet boy at that, more interested in his cats than his kingdoms. Tommen would have made the kindest and most demure of husbands. He may never have measured up to the kings of old, never won great glories on the battlefield, never built empires, conquered cities, or brought unwieldy lords to their knees, but he would have been a gentle father to his people, and they would have loved him.

And he had loved Margaery, of that she was sure. He still wrote to her, now and again, from the wall, dutiful even in exile. And she still thought of him sometimes, perhaps because, of all her former husbands, it was his fate she regretted the most.

It was a shame, really, Margaery thought privately. Because a king like Tommen had, at that time, been just what was needed. Someone looking to heal the land and the people, not to conquer with fire and blood.

Unfortunately though, fire and blood were coming, and there had been nothing that Tommen could do to stop them.

Perhaps she could have done more to help him if things hadn’t unfolded as they had. At the time, though, she had been preoccupied, as unaware as her young husband, of the approaching danger.

But there had been another danger, and perhaps she’d let it cloud her vision, and perhaps she’d been wrong to. But the truth was that, at the time, it had seemed that much closer to home, that much more pressing.

The truth of it was that she was being propositioned.

In itself, this was nothing unusual, but the vile Kettleblack man, with dark hair all up his arms and – Margaery could only imagine – coating his back and chest in a thick, oily layer, was particularly insistent. She shuddered. She couldn’t bear men who looked like animals (and she particularly couldn’t bear men who had nothing of value to offer her). In fact, if she really thought about it, Margaery sometimes wondered whether it was really men she wanted at all.

No, if anything, men should look like her brother – not in a Lannister way – Margaery’s affection for her brother had never been sexual, even when she had offered to share him with Renly ( _especially_ then, in fact). No, but Loras had been clean and smooth and pretty. Taught without being overly muscular. _Golden_. The kind of man Tommen would have grown into. Everything a prince should be.

Oh lord. She was starting to sound like Sansa. It was all this nostalgia, making her weak.

She frowned. Kettleblack had touched her once – quite deliberately – and she’d had to pull away from his touch. His calloused hands had as good as grazed her skin. Cersei had been at the bottom of it, she was sure.

And she’d known that something would have to be done.


	6. A Clash of Queens

When Margaery was pleased enough with her face, she leant back in her chair to relieve some of the pain in her spine. ‘Azario?’ she said softly.

‘My lady?’

‘I’m tired. Perhaps you might let the queen know?’

‘You mean to refuse her?’

Margaery half-turned. She could hear the eunuch’s raised eyebrows in the tone of his voice, but still smiled when she saw his face.

‘Do I shock you?’ her mouth quirked up at one side.

‘I – ah – no, my lady. I will see to it that she receives your message, of course.’

‘Thank you.’ Margaery turned again. ‘And you needn’t worry for me, you know, sweet one. I’ve lasted here longer than most. You’d be surprised by the things I can get away with.’

Cersei, for one.

Cersei, who had come up against her time and again. Cersei who had been in the way for far too long. Cersei who for some time, had been plotting something big...

Margaery hadn’t been sure whether she could derail it completely – she could never make Cersei love her like she had done with her sons – but if she played her cards right, she’d known that she could buy herself some time.

Cruel, ruthless, broken... _beautiful_ Cersei. Margaery had tried being a friend, a daughter, a sister... nothing had worked. Until she was left with only one option.

Even now, Margaery could remember the way that just the thought of it had made her stomach feel _tight_. Hot and cold at the same time. Like a wave about to crash. It would be dangerous. It _could_ be deadly. She would need to be pretty desperate to try it. But then, with the Kettleblack man (and others too, she had noticed) encroaching a little closer each day, she was getting pretty desperate.

And then there was Loras. It would have been different, perhaps, if she’d had him by her side. But the Lannisters (Cersei) had seen fit to send him away to defend the Reach (to die). And poor, sweet Loras hadn’t even questioned the wisdom of going. In fact, he’d _begged_ them to let him go. She’d begged him, too, of course.

_Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone with them._

He hadn’t listened.

 _Don’t worry,_ he’d said. _I’ll be back soon._ Lies. Sweet lies. By the end of it, he’d lain dying, unable to protect her.

And so yes, she’d been desperate.

And Cersei had been asking for it.

In fact, Margaery would never even have _considered_ doing what she had done, if she hadn’t thought that maybe, just maybe, hidden deep down in amongst all the hate and bitterness, it was exactly what Cersei wanted.

Oh, there was no question in Margaery’s mind that Cersei hated her. Anyone could tell as much. And now, for Loras, Margaery hated her in return. But even at the worst of times there is only a hair’s breadth between hate and love, and Cersei’s hatred ran deep and passionate. It was a hatred that perhaps, if the moment was right – and Margaery was good at creating such moments – might be moulded into something infinitely more desirable.

And, if she was honest, Margaery had to admit that there was something about Cersei, too, something out of the ordinary, that drew her in.

Perhaps it was a power thing. Cersei attacked power in an entirely different way to Margaery, and despite herself, Margaery couldn’t help but admire her confidence, the sheer strength of her will.

It would be difficult, though, with so many potential energies at play. So many ways for them to implode.

But Margaery had been ready to take Cersei on. Cersei who thought she was so clever, who had so long reigned in King’s Landing, who had dared to _hurt_ Loras.

Cersei, who needed knocking down a peg or two.

To get what she wanted, Margaery knew that she would have to be daring, because the queen regent wouldn’t respond kindly to weakness.

But she’d been daring before, and it had paid off.

And so she’d snuck down to Cersei’s chambers one morning, just before council, and waited.

‘What’s this?’ asked Cersei, dismissing her companions and directing the full force of her exquisitely arched stare at her former (and soon-to-be) daughter-in-law.

‘A gift from Highgarden, your grace.’

The roses, strewn all over the bed and floor.

‘Forgive me if I got a little carried away, but since we are _family,_ I wanted to give you something beautiful,’ Margaery shrugged, smiling. She knew that Cersei didn’t think her beautiful. _Only the prettiness of youth._ Perhaps the old lioness was in denial, or perhaps she meant it. Either way, it mattered little.

Because there was so much _more_ to Margaery than beauty.

‘No matter,’ Cersei had smiled. _An empty smile. Sharp. Edged. With bitterness, and sadness now too, at the loss of her eldest boy. (He deserved it, Margaery thought, uncharitably, perhaps, at such a time)._ ‘I’ll have the maid clear it away.’

And Margaery had laughed, a delicate tinkling sound, which she knew very well set the queen’s teeth on edge. ‘The smell is divine, your grace, don’t you think?’ she’d said, stepping in close.

‘Perhaps. I find it a little sickly-sweet for my tastes.’ Never one to hide her true feelings.

Margaery tinkled once more. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘it just occurred to me, now that he’s dead, how terribly lonely you must be.’ Friendship extended, Margaery readied herself for the rebuff. The older woman must think her rather a glutton for punishment, she thought with a smile.

Cersei’s features drew tight. ‘A queen is never truly alone,’ she said. ‘You must know that.’

‘But your grace, being alone, and feeling alone are hardly one and the same, don’t you think?’

‘Did you come to offer me your company?’ Cersei scoffed.

‘In a way, yes.’ Margaery’s lips quirked, but to her annoyance, Cersei had already turned away from her, filling a glass from the jug on her desk, and didn’t pick up the (frankly non-too-subtle) layer of meaning behind her words.

As she watched the old queen sweep the roses to the floor in disgust, Margaery could see that she was going to need a different approach.

‘I know I feel alone now, without my brother,’ she said.

Cersei turned, bringing the cup down from her lips. ‘So you came to make me feel guilty? Is that the right of it?’

‘You sent my brother away to die,’ Margaery crept a little closer, tilting her head to one side, and whispered,’ I wonder though, have you now done the same to yours?’

That was when Cersei drew back her hand and slapped her full in the face.

But Margaery had been expecting it, and even the pain couldn’t wipe the smile from her face, because she knew, then, in that instant, that she had judged right: Cersei was pining for her brother, the twin who, as cruel nature had dictated, was the only man who could satisfy her needs.

She was open, she was vulnerable, and she was _wanting._

Margaery put her palm to her cheek where she felt the redness spreading. She said nothing.

‘What do you want, girl?’ Cersei spat, and Margaery noticed that the words were already a little slurred from the wine. ‘Or did you just come here to torment me?’

‘I’m afraid I did,’ said Margaery, and in that moment she stepped in to kiss the queen.

Cersei pulled away, her expression one of outrage.

‘I shall have you thrown into prison, you little whore! How dare you ply your trade in the bedroom of the queen?’

But Margaery’s expression was quizzical, not afraid – no doubt infuriating Cersei yet further. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand it, your grace,’ she’d said. ‘Because it seems to me that you are _so_ eager for me to be fucked. You send your men to me one by one. As if I would spread my legs so easily – for a bard, a servant, those greasy Kettleblack brothers.’ She moved a little closer, to be sure that Cersei was watching intently every quirk and tumble of her lips. ‘But haven’t you heard what it is they say, your grace?’ she said, pausing, smiling, knowing that Cersei wanted nothing more than to slice that smile clean off her face.

‘What’s that?’ the whispered reply, barely audible.

‘Why,’ she edged still closer, ‘that if you want something done, you should do it yourself.’

And with this, Margaery jerked forward, and bit Cersei’s bottom lip. Hard.

The queen shrank back, wiping her face. There was blood.

Margaery just smiled, unmoving, as Cersei came at her again. She wondered if she was in for another slap, and if so, whether it would hurt more than the last. But this time, Cersei took her by surprise, grabbing her jaw in one hand, wrapping her fingers just slightly around the throat, and forcing her back, against the wall.

And then she kissed her. Hard. Kissed her until it _hurt._

Then, all of a sudden, she pulled away, and then came the hit that Margaery had been expecting. It was harder than the first. The queen had used the back of her hand, knocking Margaery off balance, jewellery slicing into her face.

Margaery staggered back, unable to resist glancing to look in a mirror, confirming that there was indeed a red stripe marking the contour of her cheek.

She’d turned back, then, and frowned, one hand hovering over the scar.

Cersei had only laughed.

‘If you’re waiting for an apology,’ she’d said, ‘you can wait all night.’

Margaery shrugged, wiping it away like it was nothing. ‘It’s ok,’ she remembered saying. ‘You like it rough. I can work with that.’

And in a single movement, she unhooked her gown from one shoulder, and let it pool on the floor at her feet.

Underneath, she was gloriously, wickedly naked.  

She smiled, walking back in towards Cersei, greedily commanding every inch of her attention, fairly sure that she had her now, if only she could seal the deal.

‘Why not, your grace?’ she’d whispered, picking out an errant wave of the older queen’s hair, and tucking it behind one ear in a curiously romantic gesture.

‘I don’t want you.’ Cersei had said.

‘Ahh, but I think that you do,’ Margaery had countered, pressing her body up against the queen’s, every curve, every soft ounce of flesh, making its presence known.

It helped that she’d had to look up into Cersei’s eyes. Margaery both knew and liked the way that she looked doing this, liked being the shorter partner, looking up at a lover. She liked the odd quirk of her mouth, the twist of her lips when she smiled, the vast space between her kind, doe-like, almond-shaped eyes. And her hair: it was pretty, especially gathered at the top, where it made pleasing waves down her shoulders. It was the same boring brown of her eyes, but Margaery didn’t mind. It made her less threatening, somehow. Less perfect. She’d checked it over several times before, on her own, in a mirror, carefully marking herself for facial positioning and expression, until she’d been able to strike exactly the right balance between vulnerable and wanting. _Practice makes perfect._

And she’d liked the feel of Cersei against her, too. Liked it even more when she was naked. They made for an uneven pair. ( _opposites attract. Do they?_ Margaery had often wondered. She’d always thought she’d quite like to fuck a mirror image of herself. And given her past record, Cersei obviously felt the same). Maragery was considerably younger, a little smaller, and everything about her was softer, more gentle. Her curves were more pronounced (good for children, as her mother had once reassured her. As if Margaery had ever needed it). She liked them like that. Her partners could never get enough, running their hands up and down and over and round, while she giggled her delight at sharing in their pleasure.

There were no such soft caresses from Cersei.

Margaery had not been blessed with a wealth of skilful lovers. Alanna had spoiled her for the men that followed. And Sansa was sweet, eager to please, but ultimately, insipid.

Cersei... Cersei was _insatiable._

Yes, it had been dangerous to fan the flames. But lord, it was exciting.

For the first time in a long while, Margaery felt alive, on fire. She loathed Cersei, hated her, and was hated just as much (more) in return. But the woman was an animal.

She’d ripped the bodice from her chest, the look in her eyes hinting that she would rather it was the skin she was tearing from Margaery’s body, and shoved Margaery down onto the bed, kissing desperately at every morsel, every inch of her perfect, naked, young body.

Perhaps she was beautiful,  after all.

The thorns from the roses had clung to her skin, a thousand sharp points digging into her back. But when Margaery had cried out, only part of it had been from the pain. Because it had been such a _good_ pain.

When Cersei had finished, Margaery lay back, panting, eyes closed. She opened them slowly, lazily, to find Cersei staring down at her, an expression of slight distaste passing uneasily across her perfect face.

‘You’re already broken,’ she’d said, unsurprised.

‘Mm?’ Margaery was barely listening. The heat was still pounding in her ears.

One eyebrow arched sceptically. ‘I suppose it happened while you were riding?’

‘I suppose you could call it that, your grace,’ Margaery grinned.

Cersei laughed. ‘You’re even more a whore than I gave you credit for.’

Margaery didn’t deny it, but she sat up, meeting Cersei gaze for gaze. For her part, she had to admit that Cersei was beautiful too. Beautiful and golden, her body only just beginning to show signs of the ten years (at least) that she had on her young lover. Her face unlined, porcelain-smooth, distant, hurting, _hurtful._ Underneath all the coldness and hatred Cersei was every inch the lioness. Beautiful, but deadly.

Reaching forward suddenly, Margaery wrenched Cersei onto her back, where one by one she matched her bruise for bruise. ( _an eye for an eye... tooth for a tooth_ ).

And yes, Margaery had enjoyed reducing the old queen to begging.

She hadn’t hung around afterwards. Leaving Cersei, lying in bed, naked, still shaking in the aftermath of their glorious fuck, she’d stolen some of the powder from her table and dabbed it over the slash-mark on her cheek: the only outward sign of what had gone on here today.

 _Already fading,_ she was pleased to note.

Cersei sat up, her bare breasts silhouetted delightfully against the deep red of the sheets. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’ she asked bitterly.

Margaery turned with a smile. ‘Oh, I believe so, your grace.’

Cersei scoffed. ‘You expect me to stand aside and allow my son to marry _someone like you?_ ’ She spat the last part.

Margaery stepped back, looking hurt. ‘Your grace, I would expect you to do whatever your conscience permits.’

Cersei laughed, ‘Dangerous words, my dear. I would see you dead and buried in the ground by the week’s end.’

‘So long?’ Margaery giggled. ‘In which case my time here definitely has not been wasted.’

Margaery had only just managed to shut the door before the glass vase shattered against it. She laughed then, tinkling like a bell as she danced down the hall. 

Because if anyone deserved to die screaming in dragonfire, it was Cersei.

 


	7. The Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: spoilers for what I suspect will crop up in season 5, and the corresponding book - I think the most recent (Dance with Dragons 2).

After what she’d done with Cersei, there had been some respite. At least a week’s worth. The queen regent had needed a little time for the marks on her own body to fade, lest she be implicated in the crime.

That was fine. It was time enough. Kingdoms had been won, lost, and burned to the ground in less.

But when that week was up, all seven hells had broken loose.

Margaery had known it was coming, of course, and known it for some time now. But she had to confess, that when she was sitting curled up in her jail cell, the knowledge didn’t much serve to ease her anxiety. It was frightening, in fact, knowing that your fate was busily being decided in your absence.

In the end ( _days? weeks?_ ), it had gone in her favour, and she’d tried to tell herself that she’d known all along that it would, but deep down she had been afraid, for herself, for her family, for her kingdom... for her life. That all of it would be lost, just because she hadn’t been able to keep her legs shut.

Well, she’d reasoned, if she’d been in the business of keeping her legs shut, she never would have climbed so high in the first place... never would have had so far to fall. And a life without risk was no life at all. Margaery knew it, and Cersei knew it too

Cersei, who had been mad to attempt anything of this sort – mad and _desperate,_ to pit herself against Margaery Tyrell, the sweet rose from Highgarden.

Right from the start, when the accusations had come hurtling forward, Margaery had been demure, compliant, readily submitting herself to whatever ritual humiliation they had lined up, but Cersei, who never learned, had misjudged this particular sparrow. The new high priest was more of a match than she had given him credit for. Unfortunately, even confronted with this knowledge, she had refused to back down.

Because that was the problem with Cersei. She put her every effort into a single plan, laying all of her cards out neatly on the table. She was a Lannister, a queen, and nothing else. Margaery almost admired her focus, her determination, but it had a downside. When things did begin to unravel, she was left with no back up, no mask to be removed. There was nothing behind the arrogance, the resentment, the bitterness, no hidden remorse and no regret. She was too good by half at barking orders. It would never have occurred to her to think to beg forgiveness.

Cersei, really, had brought it all on herself.

They’d made her walk, naked as her nameday, through the city, Margaery remembered, with a smile. She’d wished she could have seen it. The old queen’s pride finally torn from her sagging chest. Had the tables been turned (which, of course, they would never have been), Margaery would have walked with her head held high, beautiful and unashamed, and the people would have dropped roses at her feet.

But of course, it hadn’t come to that, because Margaery, unlike Cersei, was innocent.

Admittedly, she hadn’t been innocent of _all_ the crimes of which she stood accused – there was no getting around the fact that, upon examination, her innocence had been found broken – but, lucky for her, the people of King’s Landing painted their judgements with a broad brush, and in the grand scheme of things, Margaery was their beloved princess, an innocent in the cruel and twisted proceedings of life at court. Cersei, on the other hand, was clearly guilty. She was the orchestrator, the organ-grinder, the one who had tried to tear down their princess. _The one who had failed._

Margaery thanked the gods daily, still, that Cersei had been too impatient to embark on any actual research. It had, she was forced to admit, been a little too close for comfort.

By that stage, though, the time for taking greater care was past. 

...

 

‘And Azario?’ Margaery called out to her servant’s retreating back.

‘My lady?’

‘Let it be known that the queen may come to me if she wishes.’

She giggled as he shook his head. Yes..., the things she got away with.


	8. The Dragonless Prince

It was late now, and she was alone. It was true, she reflected, what she’d said to Cersei about the difference between being alone and feeling alone. These days when it felt as if she was never truly alone, she had come to treasure quiet moments of darkness.

Funny, the way that things turned out.

Yes, in the end, once the trial had run its course, she had been allowed to marry Tommen, but unfortunately for him (and very almost for her), though they weren’t yet to know it, the time of the Lannisters had already ended.

The dragons had returned.

Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name and the first of the returning dragon conquerors, had shown up on their shores and together with his bands of sell-swords he had quickly torn down everything she’d taken such care and such time to build.

The capital and the kingdoms with it were quickly lost. The dragon prince and his golden company landed in the south, where the Martells had quickly flocked to their banner. The memory of Elia, and more recently of Oberyn still bitter to the taste.

Margaery had herself been saddened by Oberyn’s passing. The fact of it, as well as the manner. She had warmed quickly to the poison prince and his paramour, the not-a-lady Elia Sand, accepting the invitation to join them in their bed on more than one occasion. ( _And such occasions they had been..._ ). They had helped her to forget that she must be married first to Joffrey... and then to Tommen.

_If only Cersei had known._

Margaery smiled.

It wasn’t important. So little was, these days, when so many were dead. But it did serve neatly to highlight the lines of division in the land wrought by the wars of recent years, and just how deep they had run.

Indeed, the swift rise to power of the young dragon lord was unanticipated, if not entirely without precedent. The dragons were known for such feats, after all.

They had taken King’s landing unawares, sneaking their men inside few by few, and eventually launching an attack from within, throwing the gates open to the remainder of the pack.

Suddenly, and unfortunately for the Tyrells, their erstwhile allies, the Lannisters, were no longer such desirable bedfellows. Other houses turned their heads. And even the Tyrells could do little once the gates were opened. Margaery wondered, sometimes, if perhaps things would have been different if Loras had lived to muster the troops, but he had long since passed.

Unfortunately, with a Targaryen back on the throne, other members of her family (old and new) were soon to follow. Cersei had been amongst the first to burn. Later Jaime, then Kevan. Lannisters all. Other Lannisters. Lannister cousins and servants, soldiers and pot-washers, squires and cupbearers. Lions the lot of them. _Hear me roar._ As Margaery remembered it, locked in her prison cell above the square, only the fires had roared. The Lannisters had merely screamed.

Not the children, though, for Aegon Targaryen was not a monster, even if he had killed her father, and her brother, Garlan, who hadn’t deserved it. Willas was banished to Highgarden, along with her mother and grandmother, but her grandmother had died soon after.

Olenna Tyrell, who had made advancing her family a lifetime’s work, had, in the end, given up too soon, in Margaery’s opinion. Margaery, who had found herself confined to a tower, once again fearing for her own neck.

It made her smile to remember just how much it had surprised the young king, that when all who she knew and loved were burning around her, she had taken the time to plead not for herself, or her father (who she had known was surely doomed), but for her young husband.

Why had she done it?

Perhaps out of kindness? Though Margaery was sure that to an outside observer, this would seem like the least likely option, in truth she had always been fond of Tommen; sweet boy, kitten among lions. His family’s failings had not been his own. He didn’t deserve to burn.

So perhaps it had been guilt? Margaery hadn’t helped her young husband as much as she could have in the lead-up to the takeover. Not that he’d thought to ask her. Not that anyone had. But then, if she had wanted to intercede, that wouldn’t have stopped her.

Perhaps the dragons had intrigued her.

Perhaps she’d been trying to make the young dragon think about the kind of queen he wanted for himself. A woman who would plead his case even in the face of her own death. Such a woman would be desirable indeed. Unfortunately for him, when the tables had turned, she’d been busy playing a different game. But he wasn’t to know. Margaery sighed. Was she really so conniving as that?

No. She glared at her reflection. She was just a pragmatist. She was only what her time had made her. The way that life had moulded her.

_It had worked though._

Because Margaery Tyrell knew, deep down, that she was no object to be moulded. She was a sculptor.

_And it had worked._

She could still remember the expression on Aegon’s face the first time she’d been granted an audience. A sneer cut across his arrogant features, sliding down from the apple of one cheek towards the opposite edge of his chin.

But by the time she’d left his chamber, she knew that she had him. At first he’d been off-hand, arrogant, superior, but by the time she’d finished, he was hanging onto her every word. She was pretty sure he would have married her then and there. He had certainly been ready enough to grant her humble request that the life of her young husband be spared.

She’d offered him her service, and he’d welcomed her into his court.

She wondered how long he’d waited before broaching the subject of their marriage to his advisors. Weeks? Days? ...Hours? (... _Minutes?_ ).

And she wondered how they’d responded. She suspected that any protest they might have made would as much have helped her cause as hindered it, for the young conqueror loved a challenge almost as much as he loved himself, and by now there was something almost alluring about the trail of deaths leading up to the marriage bed of Margaery Tyrell.

It was as if she had become, in herself, something to be conquered.

Not that she ever encouraged this kind of thinking. At least not explicitly. After all, she could hardly claim credit for the deaths (Joffrey aside). No, instead she had hinted to him, subtly at first, and then more forcefully from the moment he’d made his intentions clear – easily within the week – just how desirable a match it was for them both. There was so much she had to tell him about the ways of their people, to whom he was, after all, a stranger. But she was not: they loved her dearly. She could help him win them around (as she had done with Joffrey, she neglected to say). With her at his side, the seven kingdoms could be reunited, and together they could make a son to further his line... and so on and so forth.

Certainly, for reasons such as these, allowing Margaery to live had not only been merciful, it had been popular, and it had been shrewd.

To marry her, on the other hand, had been foolish, it had been impetuous, and it would mark the beginning of the end of the young king’s reign. His counsellors had tried to warn him as much. But Margaery, sweet Margaery, had been there, by his side, whispering sweet certainties into his ear, all the time thinking of the way her father had cried out as the flames licked his beard. Of her grandmother, the woman she had loved the most, dying alone, thinking she had failed their family of roses.

It hadn’t been about revenge. Or, perhaps, it hadn’t _only_ been about revenge. Margaery did so like to be queen, but she could see that the game was changing, and she knew that when it did, she would have to roll with it.

And so, when, as expected, Aegon’s better-renowned aunt had not taken kindly to the match, Margaery was already several moves ahead.

Unfortunately for Aegon, his position had changed. As a young, single man who had won himself a kingdom, he had been a catch. His aunt might have the fame, might have the man-power, might have the dragons, but he’d had Westeros by the throat, and that was all and everything that she had ever wanted. Knowing this, his actions had been all the more foolish. Because from the moment that Aegon Targaryen had taken a wife, he was no longer his aunt’s last living relative, he was her rival, and he had doomed himself to die.

...

A patter of footsteps in the corridor outside brought Margaery crashing back to the present day.

‘Lady Margaery?’

She turned her head. It had taken some getting used to, going back to being plain old ‘Lady Margaery.’ Not to worry, she consoled herself. Given time, it would be worth it.

She reached down to rest her hands over the curve of her swollen belly, and smiled. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she was tired. And her back was horribly sore.

All because Aegon had given her something she would treasure forever.

Aegon Targaryen had given her a prince that would someday sit the Iron Throne.


	9. The Dragon Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it! I hope you enjoy it - and special thanks to those of you who stuck with it :)

‘Your grace, I know that I am surely guilty, but today I kneel before you and plead for the innocence in my belly.’

‘You are carrying Aegon’s child?’

Margaery didn’t look up, but to Daenerys’s credit, the shock had hardly flickered in her voice. It was no surprise. The new queen was not only prettier, but shrewder, than the young nephew she had already burned.

‘Yes your grace.’

She had been dismissed, but within hours, she was upgraded to more comfortable living quarters. And she had known then, with certainty, that it had all been worth it. 

...

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the great grass sea, breaker of chains... _mother of dragons_.

A familiar set of crystal-cut, blond features at the door.

Margaery hadn’t expected to win the queen’s desire in her current state, though she couldn’t deny she had hoped for it.

As it turned out, Daenerys was full of surprises.

Margaery hadn’t expected her to come tonight, and yet here she was.

‘Azario said you were tired,’ she said. ‘I thought you might be in pain. But of course you were playing me,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘Must everything be a test?

Suddenly, Margaery felt ashamed. It was funny, how only Daenerys could do that, make her feel small, like a little girl caught misbehaving.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘What’s the matter? Don’t you believe that I love you?’ Daenerys bent down beside Margaery and kissed the edge of her hairline, turning her face, so that Margaery could see them both together in the mirror. ‘Is that what it is?’

‘Everybody loves me,’ said Margaery, more with regret than arrogance. ‘It’s why you kept me, if you remember. What is it that sets apart this love of yours?’

‘Well I had hoped that it might be reciprocated,’ said Daenerys, withdrawing into the darkness, where the odd, flickering light of the candle cast wicked shadows across her face.

‘I had something for you,’ she sighed.

Margaery turned. ‘You can give it to me here,’ she suggested.

Daenerys shook her head. ‘I’m not sure you deserve it at all.’

Margaery narrowed her eyes at the queen, trying to force her hand, ( _how? How could it be so difficult, when with others it was so simple?_ ). Eventually she shrugged. ‘Perhaps I already have everything I want.’

Playing again. It was a hard habit to break.

‘And what could you possibly know of the pleasures you lack?’ said Daenerys, arching an eyebrow, even as her cheeks dimpled, and the corners of her lips upturned.

Margaery acknowledged the truth of this with a tilt of her head, a reflection of the queen’s smile dancing on her lips.

This time, when Daenerys extended her invitation, Margaery took her hand and followed her out into the darkness.

...

They headed through the throne room and out onto the balcony that overlooked the dragon pits, filled for the first time in centuries.

Margaery breathed in deep. She wasn’t sure what she expected to detect on the breeze – destiny perhaps, or fate, or something like it. Instead the scent of blood was strong, overwhelmed only by that of dragon shit.

Below them, the beasts circled one another, prowling like wolves.

Daenerys’s scepticism had not been unwarranted. So much that had happened between them had been a test of some sort or another.

Margaery could still remember every detail of her first meeting with the great creatures, not so large then as they were now, but still towering in their obscenity. She remembered the sound of their breathing. The scaly intake of breath grinding its way up through hot gristled nostrils.

Several moons ago, she had followed Daenerys out into this very courtyard, trying not to look, and yet mesmerised, as the queen had gone through the absurd formality of introductions.

‘Meet Viserion,’ the white dragon, smaller than the others, ‘named for my poor brother ( _...the brother you killed,_ Margaery remembered thinking bitterly at the time of the rumours that had reached them at court), Rhaegal,’ slightly larger. A vivid green, ‘for the bravest brother I never met (... _whose son you killed_ ), and Drogon,’ a giant. Blacker than the night sky. With this last, Margaery bit back a snipe. Daenerys had loved her first husband, that much was known.

Then, as now, Margaery was expected to approach the beasts without fear ( _impossible_ – who could attempt such a feat? – perhaps with bravery, but never without fear).

_It’s a test,_ she had thought at the time, _just a test. She won’t let me burn. She won’t let Aegon’s son burn._ With this thought giving her strength, she’d stepped forward and held up her hand to the largest of the three.

The move was unprecedented. She remembered her resolve weakening as she’d seen the fear slide across the queen’s face. Confusion. _Wasn’t this what was expected of her?_

Apparently not. Drogon had snarled and reared up on his back legs.

Margaery had taken a step back, and it would have ended then and there, had not the smaller dragon, Viserion, crashed into his brother’s shoulder, knocking him off balance.

Drogon had raged, ripping a chunk from his brother’s wing, but his attention having been duly distracted, he merely turned away and huffed, leaving Viserion, poor, wounded Viserion to peer down at Margaery. He bent his head, and inspected her hand, still outstretched. She fancied she could almost hear his heartbeat, certainly she could hear the breath rattling inside his chest. But his eyes were only curious, and his muzzle was warm as he rubbed again her. As he did so, Margaery could remember the feeling of her own breath leaving her mouth in a rush of frantic relief.

And she had looked at the queen, and smiled, thinking perhaps that she had passed.

But Daenerys didn’t say a thing, hadn’t opened her mouth throughout the entire exchange. In fact, if anything, as she shepherded Margaery away, she’d seemed frustrated.

Later, Margaery had learned that of the ten or so Daenerys had introduced to her dragons that day, four had been burned on the spot, and the rest had been led away screaming.

Not so Margaery of House Tyrell. The dragon queen was going to have to find another way to deal with her.

Margaery was under no illusion. There was only one reason she wasn’t already dead and buried – or no, perhaps that was unfair, for the blond-haired queen was no monster – but banished at the very least, and that was the child resting in her belly.

Yes, the child was key. Whispers that Daenerys Targaryen would never bear a human child had been circulating in court for years. The dragon queen had made a pact with the devil, she dealt in sorcery, she had eaten her unborn child’s heart –tales of a monster. Margaery didn’t believe them. But she did believe two things: firstly, that Daenerys Targaryen could not have children, and secondly, that she would not want the line of dragons to end with her.

And therefore, once she’d heard even the first breath of rumour that Daenerys Targaryen was setting sail for Westeros, Margaery had set to work. Margaery, who knew that sometimes battles had to be conceded in order for wars to be won, who had had to fuck every blond-haired, blue-eyed southroner in westeros to be sure to get the baby in her belly, had, in the end, got what she’d needed.

Because Aegon, she knew, and had known from the start, would be the first to go when the dragon queen arrived. He was a challenger, a rival. He had proven that in wedding her. Daenerys would not, could not suffer him to live.

But she might suffer his son.

Margaery had counted on it, in fact.

The son who _might_ be of the line Targaryen, but was _definitely_ of the line Tyrell.

Margaery rubbed her belly and smiled. _Growing strong._

At her side, Daenerys made a gesture, and beneath them, a guard tossed a sheep down to the dragons. They were restless, it was dusk: time for hunting, but for the moment the sheep would serve to sate their hunger.

Once the creature had been torn apart, the dragons looked up to the balcony, knowing that the gift had come from their mother. Drogon took the place of the leader, in the centre, acknowledging Daenerys, but Viserion was restless, as he tended to be in Margaery’s presence, and in the end Drogon relented and let his brother surrender to Margaery’s touch.

She rubbed the scaly cheek with tenderness, as she would an affectionate dog, as all the while the other dragons huffed and puffed their impatience.

‘Here it is,’ said Daenerys.

‘What?’ Margaery had only half been listening.

‘My gift.’ Daenerys nodded to the dragon below them nuzzling the upside of Margaery’s palm like his life depended on it.

Margaery turned her full attention on the silver dragon queen.

‘Do you mean it?’ she said, because sometimes, just occasionally, with Daenerys, she allowed her guard to drop. Just for a second, the layers: Queen Margaery of Westeros, Margaery Tyrell, daughter of Highgarden, would peel away, revealing plain Margaery, a young girl, who in the course of her short life had lost almost everyone she had ever held dear.

‘Yes, sweet girl,’ Daenerys laughed aloud, taking her free hand. ‘As if he would fly for anyone else.’ 

...

Margaery didn’t know how long they had flown for, or how far. All she could remember was the deft throb of the vein in Viserion’s jugular as she had thrown her arms about his neck, the slow and deliberate pulse of his shoulder muscles between her thighs, the pain as his scales contracted pinching her bare skin, the beating of his wings against the silence of  the night, and the rush of the wind as they soared above King’s Landing, above the woods and the fields, the ocean, and eventually, the clouds.

It had been like a dream. Only Daeny, standing beside her now, afterwards, linking her hand and holding her steady, served as a reminder that it had happened: it was real. She, Margaery Tyrell, had flown with dragons.

Looking at the girl beside her, similar age, similar countenance, smiling, flushed: a lighter reflection of herself, Margaery was reminded of the time when she had first recognised a likeness between them.

It had been a dinner. A formality. The queen and her most trusted advisors, each of them trying to decide what should be done with the whore from Highgarden who had not only married each and every one of the four usurper kings past, but been lucky enough to land the heir of the most recent in her belly. Most of them, Margaery could tell from the curt, boorish, way they spoke to her, had already marked her for exile. To live out her days in a convent, perhaps, if she was lucky.

But Margaery was not to be so easily cast aside.

‘Perhaps you might explain to me, lady Margaery,’ the queen had said, speaking softly whilst at the same time commanding the attention of every person seated, ‘how it is that men fall so readily at your feet?’

‘Not just men you grace,’ Margaery had murmured, so quietly that only those closest to her heard any of the words, and only the man to her right choked into his soup.

‘I’m sorry?’ said the queen.

Margaery wiped her mouth daintily, and smiled, before uttering a revelation almost equally shocking.

‘I said that everything I have ever done, I did only because I wanted to be queen, your grace,’ she said.  

The men around the table gasped – all except Tyrion, of course, who knew Margaery better than the rest. She was glad to have him back in court: the last Lannister. With no father, no meddlesome sister or brother on hand, he had finally been allowed to wed one of his whores: a vacuous doe-eyed girl, content to look down and love him, Margaery supposed, but he looked happy on it, and she was pleased for him.

Meanwhile, Jorah, the queen’s hand, had almost coughed up his mouthful of pie. ‘Your grace!’ he spluttered, reaching an outstretched hand towards Margaery, ‘your grace – to make such a claim is _treason_.’

But Margaery had merely smiled, and looked up towards the queen, hoping against hope that she had judged correctly.

And Daenerys had met her gaze, unflinching, until at length she’d waved away Jorah’s objections.

At last, thought Margaery, at last, _someone who understood._

And Daenerys had understood. She had looked straight at Maergery, and asked her outright, about the trail of unlucky husbands she left in her wake.

‘Unlucky, your grace?’ Margaery’s lips had twisted as she dared to question the presumption, ‘I’d say up until the point of their deaths they were very lucky indeed.’

Yes, Daenerys had understood. She understood all about power and desire and want... _And dragons_.

And she understood still.

Margaery turned to the girl beside her, her queen, _her love_ , and pulled her into a kiss.

At first Daenerys gasped, but she soon found her way, lashing out with her tongue, and teeth.

And in the end, it was Margaery who pushed away, rubbing her swollen lips.

‘And you thought you were tired,’ Daenerys reminded her, teasing, forcing Margaery to kiss her again, into silence.  

‘Take me. Now,’ she whispered, panting, into her queen’s ear.

And, smiling wickedly, Daenerys led her back into the throne room.

They hadn’t been intimate with each other, not for a while. Margaery was reaching the later stages of pregnancy, and her body felt distorted and tender, but Daenerys seemed not to care. She ripped the loose gown from Margaery’s shoulder, leaving her naked and vulnerable, her brown hair tumbling loosely down over her shoulders, her skin glowing silver in the moonlight.

She reached out with her own hand to loosen the clasp at her lover’s neck, but Daenerys was too quick for her, stepping out of it, and pushing Margaery away.

Margaery closed her eyes. The last image she saw was of Daenerys, bathed in moonlight, silver and perfect, her skin porcelain and her curves wanting.

Margaery breathed out. With cold metal against her calves, she stumbled in the semi-darkness, falling back, but only so far.

It was the throne. The Iron Throne. The iron from a thousand swords forged into one throne: the seat which ruled the seven kingdoms. And she sat back against it, naked, feeling the cold power surge through her.

When she opened her eyes, Daenerys was looking at her, hungrily.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked, kneeling astride Margaery’s bare thighs, stroking her belly.

Margaery could only nod. At first, when she had discovered she was pregnant, she had spent every night hoping and praying for a boy: a strong boy to someday sit where she now sat, and rule the seven kingdoms. Given time though, she’d relented her wish. Kings might have their uses, as far as heirs were concerned, but Margaery had always had a preference for queens.

Daenerys inclined her head so that Margaery could feel the slight warmth of breath against her neck, but she did not stir. She daren’t make even the smallest of movements, when bearing down on her she could feel not only the weight of a thousand other lives, but heaviest of all: the burden of her own. The knowledge that if she had done any one single thing differently, in the whole of her life, then it might never have led her to this. Knowing this, how could she dare move? How could she ever?

As behind her, her dragon roared.

And before her, her dragon knelt.


End file.
